


A Good Reason

by SteampunkCow



Category: Homestuck, Homestuck AU - Fandom
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Derse/Prospit Royalty, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternian Empire, Blackmail, Dark Arts, Death, Demons, Derse and Prospit, Destiny, Dragons, Drowning, Family, Fortune Telling, Frog Gods, History, Hope, Justice, Justification, Love, Loyalty, M/M, Magic, Medievalstuck, Necromancy, Nobility, Overcoming Fear, Pain, Plot, Polytheism, Prince of Heart God Tier, Prophecy, Reincarnation, Sarcasm, Saving the World, Seer of light, Seer! Rose, Witchcraft, dead! Dirk, fairytales - Freeform, family matters, gypsies, gypsy! Dave, magical Dave, magical Dirk, medieval times, noble cause, reason, servitude, soothsayers, the afterworld
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 03:27:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2636327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SteampunkCow/pseuds/SteampunkCow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirks reason for dying had been a noble one. It was his duty as Prince of Derse to save the people from Demons and other dangers.<br/>Hopefully,  the gypsy, Daves reason for bringing Dirk back from the dead was a good one too.  Especially in the court of Her Imperial Condescension, some 5 or so centuries after the Prince's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. There better be a damn compelling reason for this.

_Running from a fight, if not exactly honorable, served a purpose._ Survival, for one, the ability to fight another day. This time? Bait for a trap. What better bait than a prince of Derse? Given the duties the royal families held towards destroying and banishing demon kind to protect their citizens, there was no doubt that the beast called Bec Noir would see the chance to settle a vendetta while ensuring his own survival a little longer. Of course, this kind of strategy would have been shot down instantly had he suggested it, so Dirk kept his mouth shut. The demon was his marionette now, and as long as he held control of the strings, they might have a chance winning.

**  
**

Even with the long strides of Arquius beneath him, he could hear the beast getting closer, certain to overtake his horse within minutes at the most. Frigid winds whipped at any exposed skin, an unfamiliar and unpleasant sensation he'd have remedied in a second if not for the fact that he needed to save the magical energy that powered his abilities with fire. Wasting that on a personal heating system was so far from being an option now it wasn't funny.

**  
**

Breaking out from the evergreens into what appeared at first glance to be a clearing, Dirk silently thanked the snow and the ignorance of Bec about their current environment for covering up the main point of his deception. It could easily have been or of the gashes burnt into the earth by dragons, thanks to the concealing powers of winter. The snow and snarls easily covered up the change in cadence as his mount's hooves slammed down onto lake ice rather than the frozen earth of the forests. The new goal? Reach the center, or as near as he could.

**  
**

As if Dirk was really holding the strings on the slavering hellbeast behind him, Bec did manage to reach them in time, right as they neared the center of the hidden lake. Vicious claws raked down Arquius's flank, pulling a scream from the horse as dark blood splattered onto the snow. The loyalty of horses only extended so far when it came to supernatural beings, and as Dirk had counted on, the blow was the last straw for the warhorse. With Arquius rearing up in an effort to get the weight off his back, it became necessary for him to abandon ship, regaining his footing while drawing his sword in time to counter a blow from the black blade once embedded in the demon's chest.

**  
**

Bec Noir was fast, he'd give him, that, and it was hard to avoid fangs, a sword, and the occasional flashes of eerie green flame, but that was alright. The goal had not been to survive, but he did need to fend off the beast long enough for one particular event to occur and to tire out his enemy's powers. Once those were fulfilled, it was just a matter of taking advantage of his chosen battleground to allow all the pieces he'd carefully set up fall into place. Failure was not, nor had it ever been, an option. With the powers of a First Guardian, Bec posed a danger to both Derse and Prospit, as well as the kingdom of Skaia. As a member of Dersite royalty, his duty fell to destroying that kind of threat. His method, while certainly not approved if it had been known, should succeed in that regard.

**  
  
**

A voice distracted him, calling out his name from the banks of the lake. Head turning instinctively to look, Dirk caught sight of the rest of the hunting group just in time for Bec Noir to disappear in a flash of green flame that melted the snow in a twenty foot radius of them, ice weakening dramatically with the flash of heat as the hellbeast reappeared behind him to avoid the sword in the Prince's hand. A wicked pain shot through his chest, and Dirk looked down slowly to find the black blade erupting from his sternum, dark arterial red staining magenta fabric in sharp contrast to the white snow and dark ice all around them.

**  
**

Letting a wide grin split his face through the pain, a gurgling bark of laughter escaped, silenced when the blade was /twisted/. Everything was going to plan, and Genesis Frog above, it hurt so badly, but it was /working/. Dropping to his knees, Dirk put as much force into the impact as he could, bringing his sword down to help shatter the ice.

**  
**

Weakened by their heavy footsteps, Bec's fire, and the blows Dirk had just landed on it, the thin ice in the center of the lake shattered, the shock of it all not allowing the demon to simply teleport away. The cold suddenly surrounding him caused the Prince to gap, bringing in only water, which proceeded to leak right back out of his lungs into his chest cavity after the fatal blow dealt. The only real bonus about the temperature was that it was quickly numbing his body, allowing the pain to be ignored long enough to bring his plan to culmination. Drawing every last ounce of energy he had, from his magic to the very force that pulsed through his body, Dirk sent out a wave of raw energy fast enough for the water to boil in the process of supercavitation, though he didn't know the word. The bubbles collapsed, sending out a shockwave to kill them both, as well as having a large amount of the ice above them erupt in a deadly spray of superheated water.

**  
**

Fire had done nothing to Bec, given his elemental allegiance, but water and the devastating force of Dirk's shockwave? The threat was gone. And so was the Prince.

**  
**

The sonoluminescence produced lit the corpses' descent down, tiny bursts of light flashing dimly off Dirk's sword and greaves. When they hit bottom, Bec dissolved into black dust that quickly dissipated throughout the water. Henceforth, nothing lived in the lake, and those who drank of it became mortally ill, the last curse of the demon.

\---

 

_Death_ _was rather boring_ , Dirk had decided, and cold at that. That could have something to do with the fact that as he wasn't strictly a hero or a villain at the time of his death, he had not ascended to Elysium nor fallen to Tarturus, but rather settled into the dreary Fields of Asphodel to remain until the gates of Death burst open on the day of the Apocalypse and let the dead flow out in a gibbering mass of the deceased. Or, until someone decided to go through the long, dangerous process of walking him out.

**  
**

For now, though, he was trapped in the same lake he'd died in, the Fields a shadowy version of the vibrant world above. Time passed, yes, but slowly and impossible to measure. The only changes were the occasional dead fish that swam languidly above him, unbothered by the temperatures or a necromancer seeking a fish minion. God, that sounded weird just to think about, but what else was he going to do? Count the bubbles that floated up occasionally? Hed been doing that for... However long he'd been down here. Every imperfection on the blade that still jutted out of his chest had been noted and memorized until Dirk knew the demonic blade better than his own, still clutched tightly in one hand. He might have tried to warm up the water around him, but his magic was useless unless summoned. This was the Fields; comfort was not exactly of absolute importance.

**  
**

Again, a voice spoke his name, if faintly, and part of a summoning spell if the tingles of feeling returning meant anything. The wound in his chest hurt, the cold began to sink its bitter teeth further in than ever before, and joy of joys, he could feel his fire magic flooding back into useless veins. Standing was a struggle, but Dirk managed, the heavy boots certainly helping him keep his balance. And such began the trek to the bank; there was no way in hell that he was going to be able to swim in any direction resembling up with the heavy armor.

**  
**

He didn't know how long it had been, but at least the inferno of his magic was defrosting him at least a little. Dirk walked and walked until the ice was close enough for him to reach up and touch the rough surface. Testing its strength, he summoned up his magic, fist rapidly heating up the water around it until he could just punch through the ice, a hand appearing on the surface. Scrabbling for purchase, the heated water made it weak enough for him to break a hole large enough to pull himself through, ignoring the cuts all along his exposed fingers in favor of savoring the feeling. Pain was better than numbness, it seemed.

**  
**

Dragging himself out of the dark waters, he was quick to move away from the weakened ice, stumbling slightly as the icy winds cut into him like the blade through his chest. Looking up at the bank not far away, blank white eyes squinted as he tried to adjust to seeing on land again, the colors of the figure standing there far too bright to be dead. So, someone had decided to go through the trouble of sneaking through the gates of Death and try to get him out of here for a second lease on life. Wonderful.

**  
**

Making his way onto dry land, he appraised the other figure, trying to speak twice and failing before his vocal chords started working properly again and what was coming out was words rather than useless croaks reminiscent of the Glorious Speaker.

**  
**

"So, someone decided to mosey their way down to the Fields to dredge me out of the lake like a siren going through the spoils of a sunken ship. Let me just get on my knees and start offering my prayers of thanks, O lantern bearer who lights the way into this unknown land, offering life in exchange for ... Whatever you want in exchange. May the Speaker of the Vast Croak bless your endeavors and make them fruitful with that whole fertility kick frog gods have going. I mean, unless you're here just to ask about history work and are just going to walk out once you get the details you need, in which case, fuck you. It's colder than a witch's tit down there, like damn, you'd think that since the water's not frozen you'd get a bit of reprieve, but not so much."

**  
**

Dead, white eyes still narrowed as his vision slowly adjusted, the process not helped by the bright coloring of the living, Dirk sheathed the katana at his side, not bothering to even try to mess with the blade through his chest. Where was he going to put that? Not to mention the unappealing thought of the resulting spike in pain. "In all honesty, what are you here for? Getting in and out isn't exactly easy by any stretch of the imagination, so you gotta have a compelling reason. That or you're really dedicated when it comes to whims."

 


	2. For the Future, the Honour, or for the Family

_There had once been a saying among the Dersite villages_ , that when the day came that the Prince would return, flames licking at his heels and wrath in his eyes, the wretched one who reached out to him through the cavernous depths of the veil to reach the fields- would be the one to wield all retribution. For lack of a better word, the wives had settled on 'retribution'. In reality, the saying was loosely translated to something that could be recited in hushed voices from gossip to gypsy to what not. The original quote was something that had been foretold in the back of a caravan while a woman was on her deathbed, years beyond what a normal human could age. "Thee that brings back the Heart of the old, can bring forth the Time of the new, absolving guilt from the righteous, and justifying the means of downfall for those who will choose to deny they who pull."  
  
Literally, the caterwauling of a deranged nomad, whose word was taken by her customers even in her last moments. Though few would ever be truthful enough to confess that they couldn't understand a grain of what the Seer said. Fewer still could say that they believed her prophecies. The gypsy had been too clever most times and like the boy who cried wolf, when her real sight came into play- believers were doubtful.  
  
That however, didn't stop her family from knowing the truth. Though tales of what the soothsayer had said resonated through the more superstitious villages while her descendants traversed the land, nothing came to fruition. No hackneyed nor bold, or courageous or foolish, came forth to pick up the mantle that the lunatic left. (as she was referred to later, even by her own family.)  
Yes her own family eventually did come to disregard the one prophecy that had the highest possibility of being true. They came to think of the batty one as a disgrace to even their nontarnishable name. Gypsies had no name to tarnish that their audience would know.  
  
Just family members long since past, who might have had gifts or might have been utterly mad.  
  
The prophetic creature of the family's legacy had been Rosa. And she had once known the prince that she had spoke of, nearly a century later while on her death bed. She had known that one day, some one would come forth and right the wrongs that were yet to happen, and with them, this person would bring back the Prince of Derse from his watery tomb.

  
\--

  
 _Dave had grown up listening to his Babushka_ orate his family's seemingly unending history in a voice that sounded like either nails down the edge of a newly forged sword, or like the trickle of a creek as it tried to worm its way through the rocks embedded in a forest floor. Everything about the woman screamed ancient and stubborn. If one sat down to talk with the aging eccentric, they could expect to be sitting long enough to lose feeling in their entire lower half before she would be even half done with her point.   
  
There was always something more to know, some new infinitesimal detail that was suddenly overwhelmingly vital to the outcome of the story. Always some ancestor that her 'little David' /had/ to learn about.  
Always some new story, some new myth, or wives tale. And always without fail, a reference to crazy crazy Rosa and her prophecy of the dead and foolhardy but beloved (for the most part) prince.  
Damn, and Dave thought he had heard it all, but every night his grandmother would pull him aside and push him onto the ground in front of her caravan that constantly smelled like too much incense and dusty silk, and he would have to endure her storytelling.  
Because he /had/ to learn the whole history of his clan before he could do anything with his life and become a man.  
A man wasnt a man if he didn't know jack about his history.  
  
Although, granted, all of his time when he wasn't doing chores was spent with his babushka and her son, his uncle, (Bro)dinger. And for certain, it wasn't a waste of time, Bro was an incredible teacher who knew all the ways of the clan, as well as the rules of chivalry (what was left of it anyways) and every skill known to fighters. And Babushka knew magic. Combined, they did their best to mold Dave into a respectable man.  
  
An orphan at birth when his mother died during a fatal labor, Dave had been fated to be abandoned by the spirits eventually, being that any son who brought the death of his mother was deemed wretched or cursed in their culture.   
So his remaining direct family, had taken the task of ingraining so many good practices, beliefs, and mojos into him that he absolutely would be able to deal with being forsaken when that time in his life would inevitably come (as foretold by the wise woman who was present at his birth.) So Dave more or less understood why he had to go through so much extra effort to build his character and get into a good light to whatever spirits that might happen to be watching, but that didn't stop him from kind of loathing the more tedious parts of his family's plan.  
  
Namely, enduring all the damn stories.   
Occasionally, Dave would think that he was enjoying them but then he'd be reminded that half of them probably weren't true and were jsut the ramblings of his babushka- and suddenly he'd lose interest again. Why couldn't he do the interesting things, like practicing the spells from the tome that was older than Babushka was by at least an age if not more. Or sparring with Bro, hell he'd even have been willing to converse with his cousin Rose (named after Rosa, family name and such blah blah) or get frightfully drunk with her sister Roxxane (roxy).  
But of course not. Dave had to keep himself knowledgeable as well as fit, and of one infuriating thing, he wasn't allowed to drink either.  
  
A gypsy, not being allowed to drink?!  
He didn't want to get into worse favor with the spirits but that was ridiculous. Celibate? He could deal with that. Chivalrous to the point it was almost ridiculous? He could deal with that too.  
But not being able to even once try the oblivion that Roxy described as being drunk, was just plain mean. One would think that they'd let their golden boy enjoy some time without thinking of his doomed fate, but again, no would be the overarching answer.  
  
Throughout all his careful life however, Dave had never thought that he would come to realize how for granted he took all his conditioning, all his training, all his exhausting memorizing of family history.  
How, one might ask, did he come to this realization?  
Simple, through the incarceration of his family. Followed by the execution of his babushka, and then sequential audience to the torture of his cousins and uncle before they were taken away and scattered to the wind.  
He didn't know if they were alive, or if they were dead.  
  
The bitch on the throne told him that they were alive, but would only stay that way if Dave would answer her questions and serve her.  
If he would do everything that he was told, and do so without protestation in the slightest. Otherwise he'd get to learn how long it would take to watch all the blood drain out of his relatives. One. By. One.  
  
How had his lovable but quirky family wound up in such a position? How did he wind up being the personal fool of the Empress? Again, there was a simple answer for a seemingly not so simple question.  
Nobody likes gypsies.  
  
They're like the spawn of the earth who exist to swindle people out of their money and then trick them into happily leaving through intricately laid out plots and a lot of flashy displays. At least, that's how they seem to most people of the upper class.. at least occasionally in the peasantry they have some admirers who don't throw tomatoes at them first chance.   
  
And yet, for Dave's family, it was an even bigger set of reasons than just the umbrella excuse of being unanimously hated. Turned out, somewhere far back in their history (he really should have been paying better attention rather than sharpening his swords or humming while Babushka had been talking), his ancestors had fucked up her ancestors. Apparently there was a feud, that could only ever actually be acted upon when his nomadic clan was in the area on rare occasion. Guess what?   
Blue moon, rare occasion, happenstance. Whatever it may have been called, Her Imperial Condescension had recognized the tapestries of his family coat of arms (yes gypsies have those too) on their caravans, and she had took it upon herself to seek revenge for her ancestors.  
They had seized everything.  
The fruits of her cruelty came to be, and a whole lot of shit went down, leading to Dave's current precarious position as court jester.  
He was the fool of every party, and people would place wagers on what they thought he could and could not do.  
But of course he was also punished viciously if her majesty ever lost a bet, and her propositions and expectations just continued becoming more and more impossible.  
  
Dave had to do everything though. He couldn't risk the possibility of his only family members being hurt or killed or worse..  
He shivered to even think about some of the things that she had said she would have done to them if he didn't please her to his utmost ability and beyond.  
  
Unfortunately, Dave wasn't a god and nor was he invincible  
After months of hardship under her word and merciless gaze, he was beginning to slip up. He started failing, and when whipping didn't seem to be enough to get him to continue so many of the feats.  
The empress had decided to bring in some better encouragement. One of the greatest incentives she had.  
  
Bro.  
  
  
There he was. In chains, bruised, battered, and altogether looking like shit, but still alive. His uncle was alive.  
Dave hadn't even had a moment of respite to rejoice over the revelation that Bro was still alive. The next wager had been placed, and this time, the Empress was convinced that she had come up with something that the kid couldn't do.  
Bring someone back from the dead.  
  
She was already getting ready to have Bro executed just on the look of total disparaging forlorn that coated her toy's face, when the eighteen year old gypsy agreed to do it.  
  
The look in Bros eyes said that even he was incredibly doubtful that Dave would be able to.   
Noone was able to bring the dead back on a whim, and especially not young and inexperienced users who knew barely more than tricks and defense spells.   
  
And yet,   
Dave was fucking going to do it, one way or another. Or he'd die trying.  
He wouldn't let Bro die in front of him because of his cowardice. He had to try. He had to save one of the only people in the world that he loved, his family.  
He /had/ to do it.

  
\--  
  
 _The Prince's name was the first thing that came into his mind_ during the split second he had to panic after his incantation was done and he had to specify who he was summoning. Family history, a crazy old woman, a prince, loyalty, heart, time.  
A prophecy. A hope. A desire. A flame.  
A cry of pain.  
Everything became a jumble when Dave felt himself being pulled into the nether realm to bring back... Dirk.  
  
His surroundings fazed away and to the living world it must of looked like he was in a trance, a very violent one at that. But he'd get back to that when he succeeded.  
  
Dave looked around at the forsaken area, it /was/ cold here. There was the frozen pool, the same from the story- the one that he had imagined so many times before.  
This mans tale used to be one that Dave had dreamed of when he was thinking of heroism. A concept that someone lowly as he would surely not achieve.  
Saving his uncle was surely heroic as it could get though right?  
That aside, when the Prince rose out of the waters, Dave really just wanted to turn back there and then. Run away, give up and forever be lost in the Fields of his own personal purgatory.  
But he held his ground.  
The other boy spoke and Dave assumed from the look of him, he wasn't actually much older if at all than Dave himself was. technically speaking, there was about a 400 year age gap between them but that didn't really matter. The only thing important on Daves mind was that he had to hurry this shit up to save his family.  
  
Still, it was kind of ungodly cool that Dave had even managed to get this far.Not to mention the way this guy spoke even sounded like he was from a time before /her/ rule. (She'd really kind of fucked over the kingdom of Alternia with her invasion and following dictatorial and imperial rule...)  
  
Daves voice was rough, weak, and it felt like he hadn't spoken in years either, although it was just minutes ago that he had boldly declared in a rush of terrified words that he'd bring someone back from the dead. He was nervous, and it felt like there was something ominous and overtly dangerous just in his near future and he wasn't sure if that was worry for Bro or if it was the toll of casting the spell. He'd find that out soon enough.  
  
"W-.. we can talk later. I don't have time to listen to you complain or ramble, I've got to.. no we've got to get back now. Have to save him. Got to prove her wrong." Well his attempt at speech was about as well thought out as his accepting of the impossible challenge.  
"We can debate godly goings after, alright, you don't have to do anything else , just fucking show up. Please please let this fucking work." His second burble of words wasn't much better, and he wound up capsizing himself when Dave began thinking out loud. Everything was so much more high risk when the person that he was trying to keep safe was being held at sword point mere paces away from where he was hopefully still standing in the land of the living.  
  
His brown eyes flickered uneasily, indecisive on whether or not to stare in awe or glare at the man who seemed happy to just stand there all bloody day. The longer they stood sizing each other up, the greater the risk, and the greater the pain grew in Daves chest. His head whirled, and he felt like he was going to collapse, the only thing keeping him going and the spell working was his sheer stubbornness. HE was going to save Bro and he wouldn't fail the rest of his family.  
"so are you coming or not, prince?"

 

**Author's Note:**

> ANOTHER ROLEPLAY!!!!! Im really looking forward to this one you should be too.


End file.
